A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  “I don’t know.” She raised a hand to her temple to press against the headache building there.

  “I won’t allow it.” He strode forward, and his hands closed around her shoulders. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine, since we were children. I remember, Sophie. I never gave you up to him. I never would have.”

  “But you did give me up to him.”

  “I didn’t know who I was! If I’d known, I would never have allowed him to touch you.”

  He swiped a hand over his brow. “I expected you to wait,” he said dully. “You promised you’d wait.”

  “I did! I waited for years!” She groaned. “Seven interminable years.”

  He dropped his arms and stared at her.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be a woman on her own, Garrett? Do you know what it’s like to raise a child alone? To live from day to day ignorant of the fate of the man you love most in the world?” Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t cry. She wasn’t prone to weeping, or any of the emotional outbursts most women of her station affected. “Those events will change a person. They will force a soul to become stronger—more independent. If you can’t accept that I’ve changed, then there is no use in either of us trying to rebuild anything.”

  “Do you still love me, Sophie? With all those changes you made, did your affection for me simmer away?”

  “I never stopped loving you.” Her voice was quiet. Calm. “But I love Tristan now, too. I’m sorry, but just as I couldn’t stop loving you when you were gone, I can’t—I won’t—simply stop loving him now that you have returned.”

  He bowed his head, then looked up at her, his eyes shining like a sunlit sea.

  “Sophie… Sophie.” He took her in his arms, but her body was stiff. She couldn’t relax against him as she once had. “What can we do?”

  She simply shook her head.

  “I can’t allow you to see each other,” he said. “Each time I watch the two of you together

  —” He stopped speaking abruptly.

  “I know.” She sighed. It had been so different when they were children. He pressed his lips to her head. “Let me make love to you, Sophie. Let me show you—”

  “No.” Her body went still and tight in his arms. Her voice was little more than a whisper. He recoiled as if she’d stung him.

  She covered her face with her hands. “How can I touch you? How can I touch either of you now with a clear conscience?”

  He pulled away from her. Taking her chin between firm fingers, he tilted her head up so she faced him. “Everything has been resolved. I am your husband.”

  “Was that my choice?”

  He stared at her, stark pain flaring in his eyes, and guilt flooded through her. She hated to hurt him.

  “No, it wasn’t your choice. Nevertheless, you’re married to me. It is your duty to stand beside me. To fulfill me in bed and out of it.”

  After gifting her with a glimpse of the old Garrett, he’d retreated to his bullying tactics. She laughed mirthlessly. “So you will threaten me with coercion.”

  “It is within my rights as your husband.”

  She stared at him, searching his face. “Would you do that to me, Garrett? Have you changed so much?”

  Again emotion flickered through his eyes, but then they went flat, as if he’d placed the final brick on his wall of defense. “How do you know I’ve changed? You never refused me before. How do you know I would not have forced myself upon you had you resisted?”

  “I know,” she said flatly.

  He dropped his hand from her chin and narrowed his eyes at her. “Not today, Sophie. Not yet.”

  “So you won’t rape me today, but you might tomorrow.”

  He rose and stood before her, slowly perusing her with his gaze. She averted her eyes as the warmth of a flush spread over her chest.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  Garrett rolled over. Since the war his sleep was restless, fraught with nightmares, uncomfortable. He dreaded nighttime because it meant he must suffer through the horror all over again.The sharp cracks of gunfire surrounded him. Men shouted. Christ, they were dropping like flies all around him. Blood sprayed everywhere. In a daze he looked at his hands. Sticky, bright-red blood drenched them.

  “Go away,” he shouted to the bastards shooting at him. If only they would leave him in peace then he could think of a way to save his men.

  But the chaos didn’t stop. The Frenchmen merely redoubled their efforts to kill him. But then a soothing feminine voice interfered, wrapping around him like a soft quilt, instantly comforting. Half awake, he settled into the sheets, still trembling, his shaking made worse by the coldness of the bedding dampened by his sweat.

  “Joelle?” he whispered, reaching for her soft, lush body.

  “No, Garrett. It’s Sophie.”

  His eyes flew open. “Sophie,” he croaked. Dressed in a white shift, her blonde-streaked hair flowing freely past her shoulders, Sophie stood beside the bed carrying a candle. The dim light flickered across her face, turning her into a beautiful specter. He yanked the blankets up to cover his naked torso. “What are you doing here?”

  She set the candle on the bedside table and mounted the step to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. “I couldn’t sleep… again… so I went downstairs to find a book.” She held up a thin volume. “I was returning to my room when I heard you moan. Were you having a nightmare?”

  “I… Yes.” He closed his eyes as the images of battle swarmed through his mind like angry wasps.

  God help him, he’d thought she was Joelle. He rubbed his arms briskly to stave off the gooseflesh.

  “Will you be all right?”

  He nodded, but he wasn’t convinced, and she seemed about as convinced as he was.

  “Would you like a posset? It might help you to sleep more soundly.”

  “No.” He didn’t want her to leave him in the dark. Alone. He swallowed, opening his eyes into slits. “Will you stay with me for a while?”

  “Of course.” Not seeming at all perturbed that he’d called her by another woman’s name, or that a few days ago he’d threatened to exercise his marital rights with or without her consent, she placed the candle and the book on a side table, and crawled up beside him.

  “Would you like me to rub your head?”

  “Why?”

  She frowned at him. “Do you remember how I used to rub your scalp before we went to bed?”

  “Yes.” Oh, yes, he remembered. He’d lain in her lap while they discussed the events of the day, and her fingers sifted through the unruly tangle of his hair. “But I wonder why you agree to stay with me after… the discussion we had a few days ago.”

  Her brows rose to pointed arcs. “Do you intend to ravish me tonight?”

  He laughed. God, it felt good. Her presence pushed away the demons. They lingered on the fringes now, as if waiting for her to leave so they could come out to assault him again.

  “No. Not tonight.”

  She shrugged. “Why not, then? I can’t sleep, and you don’t want to be alone.”

  “It seems logical, I suppose.”

  “It certainly is.” She patted her lap. “Lay your head.”

  Obediently, he lowered his head to rest on her thighs. Her fingers plunged into his hair, and after a few moments, his eyelids drooped and his muscles relaxed.

  “It feels so good,” he murmured.

  “It’s always had this effect on you, hasn’t it? It was the best way to melt away the difficulties of your day.”

  “I remember.”

  For several minutes, he closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the feel of her hands on him. Her fingertips pressed on his scalp, rubbed his temples, even squeezed around the shell of his ear. When she spoke again, he had nearly dozed off.

  “Who is Joelle?”

  He stiffened, and she huffed out a breath. “It’s all right, Garrett. I’m not going to shoot you.”

  He opened his eyes, star
ing across the dimly lit room. The candle flame flickered and cast long, eerie shadows across the walls. If he were younger, they’d frighten him.

  “She was a woman I knew in Belgium.”

  “A lover.”

  “Yes.” His throat was dry. He could use that posset about now. Or, even better, a stiff drink.

  “Do you love her?”

  He paused, then sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Her fingers stilled on his scalp, but then they began to move again, slowly. “I won’t lie and say I’m not terribly jealous.”

  “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “If I’d known—”

  “ ‘If’ is a word we could repeat forever, isn’t it? If I’d known you were alive…” Her voice trailed off. “Yes, I am jealous,” she said firmly. “Hearing about the woman you bedded pains me. But I understand how it happened. You’re not a man inclined to celibacy.”

  “No.” Even now, speaking of Joelle and celibacy and lying in Sophie’s lap, breathing in her sweet floral scent, his loose drawers grew tight. He willed his errant body to behave.

  “As difficult as it is to hear, I can only conceive how devastating it would be to see,” she said quietly.

  The image of her tied up in bed—in this bed—with Tristan on top of her barreled through his mind, and his shoulders tightened. “It wasn’t… easy.”

  “I imagine not.”

  They lapsed into a long silence. She continued to rub his head, moving down to the back of his neck at his hairline.

  Her cool fingers feathered over the hot flesh behind his shoulder. “What were you dreaming about?”

  “The war,” he murmured.

  “Do you have nightmares often?”

  “All the time.”

  “How awful.” There was true sympathy in her voice. “You sounded… terrified.”

  “Usually am.” He was half asleep, sinking deep into the pleasure of her gentle touch. Her fingers curled over his shoulder. “If it helps, I’ll rub your head. Whenever you need it.”

  “It helps,” he whispered. It helped him more than she might ever know. “Thank you, my love.”

  Sophie spent the better part of the morning companionably writing letters with Miranda, who’d been uncommonly quiet for the past few days. With painstaking effort, Miranda had written a long missive to her grandmother. Then she’d written to Gary. Dearest Gary,

  I hope by now you have stopped weeping, for as I have told you many times, weeping has no useful effect besides making the person who weeps quite ill. Mama is here and she is well, as am I. And I am certain you are well, too, for Mr. Fisk has told us so. Mama says we will meet again very soon, and there you can tell me about all your adventures in your new home. Mr. Fisk says you live beside an inn claiming to house blue swans, and I am exceedingly eager to learn whether you have indeed seen swans which are blue, for I never have.

  With much love and greatest affection,

  Lady Miranda James

  Sophie’s own letter writing had been difficult and rather frustrating. As she wrote, she became increasingly nervous about Garrett and his reaction to the flurry of femininity that would overtake his home when Becky and his aunt arrived. Sophie found it difficult to imagine him idly sitting by as the ladies chatted about balls and fashion and gowns and potential beaux for Becky. Tristan would have taken it all in stride—in fact, he likely would have joined in the discussions with his opinions. But those matters wouldn’t interest Garrett. They never had.

  “Mama?” Miranda was studying her with her corn-flower-blue eyes.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Will you be attending many balls this Season?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Miranda. As your Aunt Becky’s chaperone, I shall have to attend a great many, I imagine.”

  “And will Papa go with you?”

  She paused, then answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think he’s ready to go to a ball, Mama.” Miranda folded her hands primly in her lap and gazed at Sophie with utmost solemnity. “He might frighten some of the more delicate ladies in attendance.”

  Sophie burst out laughing. Her little girl was truly wise beyond her years. Miranda just stared at her, and she sobered quickly. “Oh, darling. Don’t worry. If he does attend any balls, you and I will be certain he is prepared for them. He won’t scare anyone, I promise.”

  Miranda nodded. Then she blinked and looked down at her lap. “Papa is a very sad man.”

  Sophie swallowed down the emotion that crowded her throat. “I know, Miranda. I know.”

  Tristan thrust the pamphlet back at Griffiths. “Lies,” he stated flatly. “All of it.”

  Griffiths’s raised brows drew thin lines across his smooth forehead. He took the slim volume from Tristan and tucked it into a pocket of his coat. “Are you certain, my lord?”

  Tristan clasped his hands behind his back and looked down the packed dirt path to where Gary had scampered ahead, chasing ducks. Afternoon sun warmed his shoulders through his coat—a hint of coming summer. New leaves blanketed the park’s trees in green, and birds trilled cheerfully in the distance.

  The pamphlet claimed Garrett’s wounds at Waterloo had left him mad—prone to uncontrollable violence, irrationality, and frightful visions. Tristan wondered whether Garrett would blame him for these accusations. Only an enemy of Garrett’s would publish such a slanderous report, and Tristan didn’t know Garrett had any enemies. Besides himself.

  Shaking off the melancholy that thought brought with it, he pinned the solicitor with his gaze. “The Duke of Calton is no more insane than I am. He’s suffered through an extended ordeal, and it will take him time to relearn his place.”

  “But can you be certain?” Griffiths persisted. “If there is any truth to the rumor, his madness could be key to our appeal.”

  “I’m certain.” Tristan released a breath. His son had caught a duck. Grinning from ear to ear, he scampered toward them clutching his flapping, panicked prize. “Gary, release the poor creature,” he called.

  Gary scowled but did as he was told. Looking quite offended, the duck ruffled its feathers and took flight, landing with a splash in the murky waters of the Serpentine several yards away.

  Who would do this to Garrett, and why? Tristan would talk to Jennings, see if he could find the source of the rumors. Even if it ultimately had nothing to do with Tristan or with Sophie, this kind of slander disgusted him.

  “Word is that not only is the duke succumbing to violence, but he is also using the duchess quite poorly,” Griffiths added in a low whisper.

  Tristan stiffened. “Where have you heard this?”

  “At my club,” Griffiths said. “An acquaintance of mine heard his servants whispering. When questioned, they reported they’d heard from a servant at the duke’s household.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes. All the servants at Garrett’s London house behaved with the utmost discretion. Tristan knew—he’d hired most of them. And Connor and Mrs. Krum, their superiors, kept a tight rein on all the staff. At the first signs of gossip, heads would roll.

  “Interesting,” Tristan murmured.

  “Do you believe there’s any truth to these whisp-erings?”

  “Certainly not.” There was an offended huff in his voice, but he remembered Garrett’s rage-filled eyes on that first night, and discomfort flooded his veins. If Garrett hurt Sophie in any way… Tristan sucked in a breath. No. It wasn’t possible. He trusted Garrett— always had. And the Garrett he knew would never lay a hand on Sophie. But Garrett had changed. He wasn’t the same man. What if… ? Hell, he couldn’t believe Garrett would hurt her, but damn it, he had to make sure.

  Ahead of them, Gary whooped. He’d discovered a stick and had tossed it into a bank of mud like a javelin. The tip sank in deep, leaving the shaft trembling. Gary sprinted toward them. “Did you see that, Papa? Did you see how I buried that stick into the riverbank?”

  “It was a fine throw, my boy.” Tristan allowed pride for his son to infus
e his voice, for it was true the child possessed athletic potential. He’d likely make a fine cricket player someday.

  “Can we make our boats now, Papa? Please?”

  “Soon, lad.”

  With a dimpled smile, Gary scampered off, and Tristan turned to Griffiths. “I’ll inquire into the matter of the duke’s behavior. But these are malicious rumors, and I’m certain they’re unfounded.”

  Griffiths nodded. His gaze slid away. “Even if they aren’t complete truths, they could prove valuable to our case.”

  Tristan eyed the solicitor, appraising him. “The appeal progresses as planned, I assume?”

  “Yes, my lord. Absolutely.”

  “Then how could false rumors possibly aid our case?”

  “If there is any question regarding the duke’s sanity, or if it’s widely believed he mistreats his duchess, he will lose favor with the courts, and it will strengthen our argument.”

  Tristan stared out over the Serpentine, its surface pearlescent in the early afternoon sun. He wanted Sophie back, but he would win her back fairly and honestly. To win her back using unfounded lies as his weapons would be not only dishonorable, but reprehensible. He wouldn’t do it.

  “No. Absolutely not. I won’t besmirch my cousin’s character for my own gain.”

  Griffiths nodded. “Yes, of course. I understand, my lord.”

  Tristan’s gaze sharpened on the shorter man. “Be certain you do, Griffiths. Now I shall take my leave of you. My boy awaits. Good day.”

  As Griffiths bowed his farewell, Tristan turned away to make paper boats with his son.

  “I should like to see my letters.”

  Garrett looked up at his wife as she approached the desk. Warily, he folded his hands on the top of the shining wood surface. He couldn’t remember much of what they’d said as he’d drifted off last night, and he had no idea when she’d left him. He must have been fast asleep.

  It seemed so much easier to talk openly with her under the cloak of night. Everything was harsher in the light of day.

  “What letters?”

  She sighed. “It has been nigh upon two weeks since I’ve received any letters. You’re turning away visitors at the door—a certain cause of scandal in and of itself, you know—